


when everything feels like the movies

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [6]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Dick Richie Tozier, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family, Family Feels, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Richie Tozier, Light Angst, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, never enough tags for someone as stupid as me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 12:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: He clicks the first tab he sees, and is greeted with a picture of a smiling preteen holding a smiling baby, with a block of text below so dense that Richie momentarily forgets the English language.“Shit,” he whispers. Eddie stirs, but doesn’t wake up, so Richie opens Google again and types in,adopting a baby celebrity faster?,then backspaces it and thinks for a second. He taps the search again and writes,gay adoption new york city.





	when everything feels like the movies

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember to read the tags for warnings!
> 
> Title taken from ["Iris"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdYWuo9OFAw) by Goo Goo Dolls.

Richie stares down at his phone in the darkness. It’s two o’clock in the morning, but he can’t sleep. _ Eddie _can sleep, and is, turned on his side with his back to Richie, curled around his pillow with his face half-buried in the top of it. Richie scoots his legs up so he can lean his phone against them and put his head in his hands instead of staring at Google’s empty search bar.

After a long moment of calming himself down by matching his breathing to Eddie’s sleep-breathing, Richie lifts his head and grabs his phone, typing _ how to adopt a baby in new york _into the search bar. The search suggestions give him a bunch of different options:

_ how do i adopt a child in new york state _

_ how much does adopting a baby in new york cost _

_ how to adopt a baby in the united states _

_ can gay couples adopt in new york _

_ can gay couples adopt in maine _

_ can gay couples even get married in maine _

Just seeing all the options Google gives him almost makes him dizzy, and he locks his phone again. After a beat of hesitation, staring blankly into the total blackness, he unlocks his phone and looks down at the searches again. He taps the _ Google Search _ button for _ how to adopt a baby in new york _and clicks the first link, one for the official government page for New York’s adoption services, which seems like a good start. He clicks the first tab he sees, and is greeted with a picture of a smiling preteen holding a smiling baby, with a block of text below so dense that Richie momentarily forgets the English language.

“Shit,” he whispers. Eddie stirs, but doesn’t wake up, so Richie opens Google again and types in, _ adopting a baby celebrity faster?, _ then backspaces it and thinks for a second. He taps the search again and writes, _ gay adoption new york city. _The search suggestions offer more options:

_ children’s books about gay adoption _

_ adoption agencies for gay couples new york _

_ adopting when you’re gay _

_ you want to adopt when you’re gay? _

_ why would you do that? _

_ are you sure that’s the best idea for someone like you? _

Richie frowns down at the options, then backspaces the question. This time, he types in, _ how to be a good dad. _The search suggestions pop up again:

_ am i capable of being a good dad if i didn’t have a dad _

_ being a good divorced dad to my son? _

_ can you be a good dad, richie? _

_ do you really think you can be a good dad? _

_ after everything you’ve done? _

_ everything you’ve seen? _

_ everything you are? _

_ dirty little richie and his dirty little secrets _

_ dirty richie wants to hit his kids, too _

_ poor little forgotten richie _

_ poor dirty little richie _

_ dirty richie _

_ dirty _

_ dirty _

“Why the fuck’re you awake?” Eddie asks, and Richie jumps, his breath catching in his throat. He locks his phone, and Eddie makes a small noise, lifting his head to look over his shoulder and glare at Richie, blearily asking, “What the fuck were you doing?”

Richie reaches out and smoothes Eddie’s messy hair back from his face. The Google search is still swimming in his mind’s eye.

“Just couldn’t sleep,” Richie tells him. He wiggles his locked phone in the air, still trying to calm his pounding heart. “Decided to jack off to pictures of you—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Eddie says. He sits up and turns over, removing Richie’s phone from his grasp and his glasses from his face. He takes the time to fold the temples of his glasses and plug his phone in like the little creature of habit he is. Richie watches the shape in the darkness that must be Eddie until he can breathe again.

“Go to sleep,” Eddie whispers to him. Richie feels Eddie’s hands pulling on his shoulders, so he scoots down until he’s laying flat on the mattress. Eddie takes advantage of his new position to curl around him, one leg over Richie’s, one arm across his chest. He buries his face in Richie’s chest, so Richie slides his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and kisses the top of his head.

“Can do, buckaroo,” Richie replies, but Eddie’s breathing is already evening back out again. Richie keeps running his fingertips absently along Eddie’s scalp, drifting through his soft hair, the image of the Google search suggestions hovering behind his closed eyelids whenever he tries to fall asleep. It takes a little longer than usual but, eventually, he dozes off into a light sleep.

* * *

The thing is, Richie’s not really sure he has it in him to be a good dad. He wasn’t kidding when he told Eddie that his lack of a stellar role model kind of fucked him up when it came to considering how he might be as a father. Being paternal, as a concept, was foreign to him. He didn’t really see great examples in his friends’ parents, nothing he really wanted to emulate himself. He wanted to be like the dads on television.

Well, he kind of wanted to be like the moms on television. The dads are always slobs who hate their wives and their families for some reason, which Richie saw too much of in his daily life to care for watching it on television. He preferred the moms, when he was a kid; he wanted a parent like Carol Brady, or Marion Cunningham, or— or Morticia Addams, even. Now that he was a grown adult, he wanted to be that sort of parent, the kind he only ever saw on the TV.

He didn’t know if it was real, though. If someone actually based those characters off of real parents they knew, or if everyone’s parents sucked and it was just wishful thinking. Richie couldn’t blame whoever wrote those characters, if it’s just wishful thinking, because he totally gets it. He used to lie to his friends all the time about what was going on at home when he was a kid.

He remembers it all like it’s one long memory, just a blur of the same repeated arguments and fights and fists curling and tempers rising and bottles flying, the tragedy that is Richie Tozier’s childhood. Not that it’s a secret, since he’s mentioned it in interviews, stand-up specials, drunken Twitter rants, and what-have-you. No, his parents are long since dead and Richie makes a living off jokes about how they treated him and now he has to go to therapy twice a week to process it or whatever.

In spite of all the casual mentions and the jokes and the years in between then and now, though, Richie’s still haunted by his parents. Every day, he thinks about them. Every _ day. _Not a week goes by that he doesn’t hear a loud noise and flinch, or someone gets annoyed with him and he has a panic attack, or he’s reminded of some stupid, innocuous thing from his childhood that starts some memory spiral that he has to then drag himself back out of.

_ Life’s a fucking bitch, _Richie thinks bitterly in those moments, before shoving it right back down to instead deal with every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:00pm with Dr. Abrams.

He even remembers when his friends first found out about his parents. He’d kept it a pretty good secret for a long time, long enough that even Bill, Eddie, and Stan didn’t know how bad it was, and they’d known him since they were all so little Richie could hardly recall. They all knew it wasn’t great, yeah, but none of them had a _ great _situation, so he just kind of slipped by.

For a while.

As per fucking usual, Eddie started the ball rolling that exposed him as a liar. Not that he or his friends could do anything about it, not that he could leave home or anything, not that he could do anything except sneak out at night and hide in Bill’s house, or Stan’s, or Eddie’s, whoever he thought would be most willing to put up with him for that night.

Usually, he can predict when his parents are going to be a problem.

That day, he’d had no idea.

It still feels like it happened yesterday. No, fuck that. It was so fresh sometimes, it feels like it happened today.

He comes in the front door quietly, turning the key as slowly as he could so the noise doesn’t inadvertently wake anyone up. He doesn’t even know if anyone’s home, but he’s better safe than sorry. He’s been at the Barrens all afternoon with his friends, the seven of them hanging out in the Clubhouse until Eddie had declared he needed to get home or his mother would skin him alive, which Richie, of course, had _ not _ let slide, prompting Eddie to shove him out of their shared hammock onto the ground. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if his dad hadn’t cracked his rib last week, but Richie’s motto is _ you win some, you lose some. _ Hurts like a bitch, but Eddie helps him stand up with one of his little, strong, warm hands, so it’s fine. It’s _ fine. _

Anyways. Richie slips through his front doorway in near silence, something most would say is an impossible task for _ any _sixteen-year-old kid who’s already pushing six feet, let alone when that sixteen-year-old kid is self-proclaimed “loudest living person on the east coast” Richie Tozier. He shuts the door softly. No one immediately makes themselves known, so he creeps towards the stairs, gently toeing off his shoes as he goes so he can climb the stairs in his socks. The third step creaks on the left; he avoids it, skips the fourth step altogether, then slides to the silent edge of the fifth step. He knows the floorboards in this house better than he knows his own skin.

There’s a bottle left on the ninth stair where he usually steps, and he frowns at it, weighing his options. Gingerly, he picks the bottle up, then steps on the stair where it was. He goes to the next step, then turns to put the bottle back down, but it slips. Richie watches in horror as the bottle topples over the edge of the step and bangs against the step below before smashing on the one before that, sending splintered glass shattering across the rest of the staircase. Richie just stares down at it, hands going cold and numb, heart thumping in the dead silence before there’s a creak on the second floor of the house.

“Richard?” his mother’s voice calls. Richie exhales shakily, then darts up the stairs, stopping in the doorway to his parents’ bedroom. His mother’s in bed, comforter pulled halfway up her body. “What was that?”

“Dropped a bottle,” Richie mutters.

“What?” she snaps.

“Dropped a bottle,” Richie repeats, a little bit louder this time. “Sorry.”

“Clean it up,” she says, then motions for him to leave. Richie hesitates, then goes, shutting the door behind himself. He goes to his room to grab the little brush and dustpan he keeps in his closet for shit like this and starts heading for the stairs when he hears the front door open and shut. He feels like all the blood drains out of his body as his father comes into the house, then stops, presumably next to the stairs.

_ “Richard!” _his voice shouts, and Richie exhales shakily, the backs of his eyes prickling. He shuts them, just for a second, then forces his legs to move, heading for the stairs. He goes halfway down and stops above the first step with shattered glass, leaning down to see his dad.

“What the fuck’s this?” his dad asks. Richie glances down at the glass pieces.

“I dropped a bottle,” Richie explains. He holds the dustpan up. “I was just about to clean it up, I swear—”

“Get down here,” his dad says, looking away. Richie doesn’t move.

“Dad, I _ swear—” _he tries, but—

“I _ said _get down here,” his father repeats. Richie hesitates, and his father turns to look at him, the two of them locking eyes for a long moment before Richie slowly puts the dustpan down on the step. He carefully maneuvers around most of the glass in his sock feet, stepping on a couple of little pieces that he crouches to pull out once he gets to the bottom, before his dad grabs him by the hair and yanks him over.

_ “Fuck,” _Richie spits, and his dad wrenches his face up so they’re eye-to-eye, Richie’s head twisted backwards a bit. Richie twitches, trying to jerk free, but his dad’s grip tightens, and he leans in.

“I _ choose _to let you live here,” his father says, in a low, clear voice. Richie shivers, closing his eyes. “Look at me.”

“God,” Richie whimpers, and his dad jerks him back and forwards again, ignoring Richie yelping, his hands flying up to grab his dad’s wrist. _ “Stop—” _

His dad doesn’t answer, shoving Richie forwards and letting his hair go. Richie stumbles, off balance, and falls to one knee, and he knows before it happens that his dad’s fist is coming. It collides sloppily with his right cheekbone, and he’s knocked sideways, banging his head against the creaky third step. He groans, reaching up to grab his forehead, but his dad’s already there, grabbing his hair again and slamming his head back against the bannister.

“In case you didn’t hear me,” his dad whispers to him, and Richie’s legs twitch uselessly against the floor, trying to back him up to escape when there’s no further left to go. “I _ let _you live here. I don’t even make you pay rent. You get the groceries, take care of the place, I give you a place to live rent-free. That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it?”

Richie doesn’t say anything, so his dad tightens his grip and leans in. “I asked you a question. Didn’t I, faggot? I said, _ that’s a pretty good deal,” _ he says, twisting his hand in Richie’s hair until Richie’s crying, sharp little whimpering noises coming out of his mouth as he contorts to follow his father’s grip, _ “Isn’t it?” _

Richie nods, trembling. His dad’s hand leaves his hair, and Richie exhales, collapsing sitting up against the staircase. He watches his dad for a moment, watches his face for any sign of what he’s about to say next. His dad looks back at him before he pushes Richie’s hair back from his face, then cups his cheek in his hand. Richie shudders.

“Better deal than most places,” his dad reminds him. Richie nods, forcing himself to stay still, not to flinch away. His dad’s hand strokes down his face, down the line of his jaw, to his throat. After a moment of charged air between them, Richie’s spine rigid with fear, his dad wraps his hand around his throat. “Most places aren’t this good, are they?”

“N-No,” Richie says. His dad’s grip is a little tight, and Richie wheezes. “Dad—”

“Don’t,” his dad says. Richie’s mouth snaps shut. “Don’t call me that. You understand?” Richie hesitates, then nods. “Good. You’re good, right, Rich?”

Richie nods again, but his dad’s grip doesn’t loosen. It’s harder, and he’s leaning closer, looming over him. Richie’s hands flutter up, stopping in midair, unwilling to try touching him yet if he doesn’t have to. It’s getting harder to breathe, the air whistling wet in and out of his throat.

“Good,” his dad repeats. He leans in closer, hand tightening again. After a moment, he shifts, taking his hand off Richie’s throat for a moment, giving him just a moment of relief before he climbs across Richie’s lap and wraps both hands around his neck. Richie gasps, the last intake of breath he gets before his dad cuts off his airflow, his throat muscles shifting painfully under his fingers. Richie smacks at him, trying to shove him off, but he’s already too weak, starting to get too dizzy. He can’t breathe, and his body tries to fight back even as he starts to drift out, his heart pounding in fear, in the thought of _ I’m going to die, this is it, I’m going to die, _before he can abruptly breathe again.

He swallows air, breathing too hard at first and making himself sick, leaning over away from his father to vomit onto the floor. His dad ignores him, standing up and over him, his boots on the outsides of either side of Richie’s thighs.

“Clean it up,” his dad says, just like his mom had, before he leaves him there, his boots crunching on the tiny shards of glass as he makes his way up the stairs. Richie lays there for a little while, shivering, before he drags himself to his feet and starts cleaning. He starts with the vomit, then the glass, tracked all the way to his parents’ bedroom. He cleans the entire staircase, then, and the entire living room floor, wiping his own blood off the floorboards. He almost vomits again looking at the spot his head smashed into on the stairs, but he cleans it in a rush before darting up the stairs to his room. He locks the door behind himself, then folds down onto the floor in a pile of limbs, silent sobs muffled into his hands as he tries to get control of himself.

It takes longer than usual, and by the time he’s done, the blood on his face has partially dried. He stands up on two shaky legs and makes himself go to his dresser, where he keeps a little compact mirror Beverly let him keep once, years ago. He examines himself in the tiny reflection; he winces when he sees his open head wound, hissing through his teeth, and his throat looks no better, mottled black and purple. It hurts to even breathe. He weighs the pros and cons of just going to bed to deal with in the morning, but the gash in his head is disgusting and he’s not sure a bandaid is gonna hold it together, which means he needs to go see Eddie, even though he doesn’t even have a good excuse for how he could’ve gotten this injured in the time it took him to get home and drop a bottle.

After far too long trying to decide, Richie finally makes himself get up, cross the room to his window, and climb out without anything. Not shoes, not his wallet, not keys. He doesn’t think of any of it before he grabs his bike and pedals in sock feet to Eddie’s house. It takes him a while, because he keeps swerving, still dizzy, but he’s still smart enough to remember to hide his bike in the bushes before he starts throwing pebbles at Eddie’s window.

Eddie’s window slides up and his head comes out after a minute, his brow furrowed, already ready to yell at Richie when he sees him. His whole expression changes, becoming one of abject horror, before he whispers something Richie can’t hear and disappears from the window. He comes running out the front door just seconds later, pulling Richie’s arm up and over his shoulders so he can help him inside.

“Oh, God, Richie, what the fuck, what the fuck _ happened,” _Eddie says, so fast it’s like the words are rolling out of his mouth, a line of marbles waiting to spill into Richie’s hands. He laughs.

“My legs are fine,” Richie tells him, but he leans on him anyways, because his head does still hurt and it’s not easy to walk upright on his own. Eddie all but drags him through the front door, talking so fast and asking Richie so many questions that it fades into a haze.

_ “Richie,” _Eddie snaps, and Richie frowns as he’s pushed into sitting down on the edge of Eddie’s bed. He’s not totally clear on when he got up the stairs.

“Where’s your mom?” Richie asks.

“She went grocery shopping,” Eddie tells him. He shuts and locks his bedroom door anyways, Richie notices, before he gets on his hands and knees and pulls his huge first aid kit out from under the bed. “What the fuck happened to you, Richie? I saw you half an _ hour _ago. Who caught you?”

Richie shakes his head, looking away. Eddie sighs loudly, then snaps open his first aid kit right next to Richie on the bed, digging through it for his antiseptic wipes. He starts slowly on Richie’s face, but it still stings, and Richie squeezes his eyes shut.

“Who did this, Richie?” Eddie asks, while his eyes are closed. Richie still can’t tell him. “Don’t lie to me, Rich. Someone did this to you. I won’t be mad at you.”

Richie huffs a laugh. It hurts his throat. “I can’t, Eds.”

“Bull_shit, _ you can’t,” Eddie snaps. “Tell me.”

“Eds—”

_ “Tell me,” _ Eddie repeats. “Richie, I swear to God, I’ve _ had _ it. I don’t care who it is, it doesn’t _ matter _who it is, just tell me.”

Richie can’t open his eyes. He twists his head away from Eddie’s hands, ignoring how badly it hurts his neck to do it, and Eddie gets the hint, scooting away. After a long moment, Richie looks at him. Eddie’s face is all red, like it gets when he’s pissed or upset, and he’s looking at Richie with this pinched little expression like he’ll pull a knife on the poor bastard as soon as Richie names them. Unfortunately for both of them, he _ can't _pull a knife on Richie's father, so it's a moot point.

“I _ can’t,” _Richie repeats, his voice breaking.

“It’s not— It’s not one of our friends, right?” Eddie asks. “I mean— I don’t mean for it to be a leading question— Is it one of our friends?”

“Fuck, _ no,” _ Richie snaps. “What, like, you think _ Bill—” _

“Well, _ I don’t know, _ Richie, why the _ fuck _else wouldn’t you tell me?” Eddie shoots right back. He alifts the antiseptic wipe and reaches out again, grabbing Richie's chin in his hand to turn his face, but Richie flinches. Eddie's hands release him, flying into the air like he's been electrocuted, and the two of them stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed.

"Richie, I would… _ never _ hurt you," Eddie tells him. "I am _ so _sorry, I just wanted to clean your face—"

"No, no, I know that, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize, fuckwad," Eddie tells him. "You didn't do anything wrong." He looks at Richie's cheek again. "Can I touch you?"

Richie doesn't hesitate before he nods, and Eddie starts cleaning his face again in slow, neat little sweeps of his medicinal wipes. He crouches between Richie's legs to work, looking up at him the whole time. By the time Richie's face is half-cleaned, Richie starts to cry.

"What's wrong?" Eddie demands, alarmed, and Richie shakes his head.

"The adrenaline— The adrenaline's just wearing off," Richie tells him. It's hard to talk and painful to swallow. He wipes at his eyes gingerly, avoiding the gash on his face and the split on his cheekbone. "Sorry."

"Don't say that, Richie," Eddie says. _ "You _ didn't do anything. Richie, _ please, _I just want—"

"It's not safe," Richie interrupts him. "For you to know. It isn't safe."

"Is it someone new? Are you worried? Rich—"

"Drop it," Richie says. He looks over his shoulder at Eddie's nightstand, where he left a couple of comic books two nights before, when he'd crawled through Eddie's window after his mother had accidentally locked him out of the house overnight. "Is it okay if I crash here tonight?"

"Why don't you wanna—" Eddie starts to say, and then his whole face pales. It's eerie; his lips even go white. It's like he's become a ghost. "Oh, God. _ Richie—" _

"Please don't," Richie says, but he knows it's too late. Eddie's got his hands over his mouth, staring past Richie out the window. "Eddie, hey, it's okay, calm down—"

_ "Calm down?" _ Eddie shouts, voice a little _ too _ high. "Richie, this is _ not _ okay! This isn't even a _ little _ okay, Rich, we— What do we do? What do I— We should call Bill. We should—"

"What the fuck is calling Bill gonna do?" Richie snaps.

"At least he'd have an idea," Eddie says, "Richie, come _ on—" _

_ "No," _ Richie snaps. "No, we're not calling Bill, we're not calling _ anyone—" _

"I'll tell— I'll tell my mom—"

"Fuck, _ no." _Richie sighs, then says, "Eds, I'm begging you. Don't. Please."

Eddie surveys his face, studying him hard, one of the bloody antiseptic wipes still clenched in one fist. He frowns. "Why?"

Richie hesitates, glancing at the floor. There's nothing there to look at, since Eddie keeps the place creepily clean, but he keeps his eyes trained downwards anyways. "I don't have anywhere to go."

"Bullshit," Eddie says. "You can come here."

"Oh, yeah, 'cause your mom loves me," Richie says, which he feels is a fair point, since Eddie's mom has made a few choice comments about Richie _in_ _front of Richie, _which must be nothing compared to what she says behind closed doors. His father’s voice saying _faggot _echoes in his ears, ringing like tinnitus, and he swallows.

"Well, Bill? Bill, or, or Stan, or you— An aunt? Maybe? I don't— We can't just leave you there," Eddie finally snaps, nearing hysteria.

"I'm fine, Eds," Richie assures him. "I'm barely there anyways. This is just a wrong-place, wrong-time. No big. I don't need to emancipate myself over _ this." _

"Richie," Eddie says, _ "this _is me seeing the inside of your forehead."

They're both silent for a long, long moment, that must somehow feel like it lasts longer than it actually does. Eddie looks away, then back, huffing.

"Which one?" Eddie asks.

"My dad today," Richie tells him. No point in hiding it anymore. Richie chances a glance up at Eddie, and his face has crumpled in on itself, a unique combination of sadness and rage. As Richie watches, it morphs into the more familiar all-rage.

"I'll kill him," Eddie says darkly. He stands up, and Richie's worried he might actually go, so he grabs his wrist.

"Don't," Richie says, too loudly, and it hurts his throat. He reaches up to touch it, but his skin aches under the pressure, and he watches Eddie put the last pieces of the puzzle together.

"He—" Eddie says, then stops. His face is getting so red, Richie's _ genuinely _worried his head might just explode. He looks down at his hands, so Richie does, too, and they're clenched into fists so tightly that his trim nails are drawing blood from his palms.

"I'm going to kill your dad," Eddie says. The two of them make eye contact in the next moment. "He tried to— God. _ God, _ I'm going to _ kill _ him."

"Eddie," Richie says, but he doesn't have anything more to say. He's not sure what there is _ to _say. Eddie presses his fists to his eyes and exhales slowly before pacing away from Richie. His whole body is shaking, and he keeps turning around and starting to pace in a new direction, like he's not sure what he wants to do or where he wants to go. In the end, he just pulls his arms in, pushing his fists against his forehead, his body a ball of knotted, electric tension before he screams, shuddering. When he's done, he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and turns to Richie.

"I'm sorry," Eddie says. "I'm sorry, I've got it under control."

Richie nods. Eddie looks him over, still shaking head to toe. Richie sniffles, looking down at his hands, and Eddie falls to his knees in between Richie's legs and cranes his head down to look up into Richie's face.

"I'm so sorry, Richie," he says. "I won't do it again, I'm sorry."

"It's not you," Richie says quietly. "I just— It's fine."

Eddie looks him over, then opens his mouth to say something just as they both hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Richie tenses, his fight-or-flight kicking in, even as Eddie whispers, "It's my mom, Rich, it's just my mom, it's okay," but it's too late, Richie is panicking, spiraling, lost in a haze.

"Richie," Eddie whispers, and Richie shoves him away. "Richie. Rich, babe, it's okay, wake up. It's just a dream, wake up."

Richie startles, jerking upright and pushing backwards against the headboard, terrified of the bedroom door opening and his dad spilling through the entryway. He looks down at Eddie, but Eddie's forty years old now, and looking at those big familiar eyes in Eddie's creased, concerned face, Richie starts to remember where he is. His mom and dad have both been dead for years, and he's an adult man now. An adult man who can fight off an attacker, or who can call the police, or— or—

"What's wrong?" Eddie asks, as Richie folds in on himself.

"I had a nightmare about my dad," Richie says, voice muffled by his arms. "About… Ahh, fuck. It was just reliving the… Ugh. _ Ugh. _Remember the night he smashed my head on the step and tried to choke me?"

Eddie's rigid and quiet for a moment before he says, "Yeah, fucking _ obviously _ I remember that, Rich, it was the worst night of my life."

"Means something coming from a dude who's died before."

"Oh, fuck you—"

"I really thought you were gonna kill my dad," Richie admits. Eddie exhales, then glances away before nodding.

"I really did, too," Eddie confesses. Richie lifts his head to look up at him.

"Really?"

"Really," Eddie says. "When you— God, Richie, you didn't see your face that night. You—" Eddie shuts his eyes, exhales slowly. Richie can hear him softly whisper-counting to ten. He's gotten better at anger management over the years. He opens his eyes again. "I still want to kill him. Richie, if I saw him again, I'd do it. I'd kill him with my bare hands."

"Easy, tiger," Richie tells him. "He's already dead."

"I wish it'd been me that got him in the end," Eddie says viciously. "I wish I hadn't forgotten about Derry, so I could have found him the second I graduated college and wrung his neck myself—"

"Eds," Richie says, and Eddie stops. After a long moment, he breathes, then looks down at his hands. "Slow down, there, killer. I'm forty now, dead dudes like him can't hurt me."

Eddie glares at him with heat. "Shut up. God, you're dumb." He studies Richie's face for a moment before he says, "You're not going to be like him, you know, Rich."

"What?" Richie asks. Eddie sits fully upright and clicks on the bedside lamp.

"You're not going to be your parents and I'm not going to be my mother," Eddie says firmly. "I've been thinking about this a lot. Like, a _ lot, _a lot, Richie. We're both medicated, we're both going to therapy. Right? We already know that we— That there's unhealthy behaviors, right? And that we can't be that way, which is more than our parents ever did, they didn't even acknowledge it. I know I'm gonna be— You know, I'll always be particular, and you're always gonna be… Uh—"

"A fuckwad," Richie supplies helpfully. Eddie looks at him for a moment, then smiles, so stupidly fond Richie could weep.

"Yeah," Eddie agrees. "A fuckwad. But, Rich, I know you. Sometimes I think I know you better than _ you _ know you. You would _ never _ hurt anyone like that. When we have kids, Richie?" Eddie huffs a laugh. "When we have— Fuck, you're gonna be _ amazing _ when we have kids _ . _ You are _ nothing _ like your parents. Got that? _ Nothing." _

Richie sniffles, then laughs. "Being a risk analyst paid off big time, didn't it?"

Eddie huffs a dry laugh, but his small smile is real. "Goddamnit, Tozier. I'm trying to be real here."

"Kaspbrak," Richie corrects. Eddie's face flushes as Richie wipes at his eyes and laughs tearily again. "Fuck, Eds, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Eddie says.

"You're nothing like your mom, either."

"Thanks."

Richie grins. "You're much hotter—"

_ "Of _course—"

"Hey," Richie says, and Eddie pulls his attention back from being dramatic to look at Richie again. "Thanks. For being there when I needed you, back then."

"I'm sorry I couldn't do more," Eddie says.

"We were kids, there was nothing we _ could _do," Richie reminds him. "It's not like Derry had a foster home or something."

Eddie's quiet for a moment, which is out of the usual for them.

"What?" Richie asks.

"Let's adopt a kid like you," Eddie says. Richie's heart nearly comes out his mouth. "Let's— I don't know. Let's find an adoption agency and tell them we have experience with trauma and go from there. Let's help a kid like you, Richie."

Richie shivers. Eddie holds his arms out, and Richie goes, folding up against him.

"Okay," Richie agrees. Eddie kisses the top of his head.

"Okay," Eddie murmurs. He snaps off the bedside light, plunging them into darkness. "We'll start looking tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Richie repeats. There's a beat of silence where neither of them move or speak. Richie can feel that Eddie hasn't relaxed at all, but neither has he. "...Or."

"Or?" Eddie echoes, when Richie doesn't elaborate.

"You can grab your laptop and we can start looking now," Richie suggests.

"Done," Eddie says. He clicks the lamp back on and grabs his laptop off his bedside table, booting it up in seconds. Richie scoots back against the headboard and lets Eddie arrange himself against him until they're fit snugly together, Eddie's back to Richie's chest. Richie hooks his chin on top of Eddie's head, laughing when Eddie brushes him off and opens Google.

Eddie doesn't get any weird search suggestions, but he does open tabs so fast Richie loses track of what they're doing, and before he knows it they have spreadsheets and bookmarks and Eddie's furiously scribbling in a notebook he's procured from his bedside table drawer. Richie just leans his head back against the wall and watches Eddie work, watches him compile lists of contact information and a timeline for the adoption process, watches him do what he does best and just _ plan. _

The sun comes up on Eddie's frenzied planning. Richie suggests, "Hey. Coffee?" Eddie nods and closes his laptop.

"You're still good, right?" Eddie asks, as Richie stirs enough cream and sugar into his coffee mug to turn the black coffee into pale tan.

"After my nightmare?" Richie asks. "Yeah, I'm fine. Little jumpy."

"I meant with the… kid thing," Eddie says. "Adoption thing. I don't wanna freak you out by being too intense."

Richie stares at him with wide eyes behind his glasses before he bursts out laughing.

“Okay, asshole—” Eddie starts to say, but Richie’s laughing so hard he’s wheezing and doesn’t hear if Eddie says anything else. He grips the edge of the counter, trying to catch his breath.

“You— _ This _ is— _ This _ is what you don’t wanna— Oh, _ fuck,” _ Richie gasps. “You don’t wanna be too _ intense?” _

“I hope you choke,” Eddie spits, grabbing his own coffee and taking a sip of it, despite the fact that Richie _ knows _it’s too hot. His face pinches, just a tiny bit, and that sets Richie off laughing again, barely able to stand up straight.

“My husband Eddie Kaspbrak doesn’t want to be too _ intense,” _Richie declares.

“Shut the _ fuck up—” _

“The man who once screamed in my face for a full _ hour and forty minutes _ because I touched a dead squirrel with a _ stick—” _

“We were _ nine _ and that squirrel was _ disgusting—” _

_ “Too intense,” _Richie wheezes, and Eddie flips him off as he storms out of the room. After a half-minute of Richie catching his breath, Eddie reenters the room and takes a deep breath.

“I’m not mad at you,” Eddie says carefully. “I’m just—”

“—too intense?” Richie suggests. Eddie glares at him. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry— No, I’m proud of you. Look at you, managing your anger. Proud of you, babe.”

“Shut up,” Eddie snaps, but he’s starting to smile a little bit. He comes up next to Richie and hops up on the counter beside him so they’re of a height. Richie turns, nudging Eddie’s knees apart so he can stand in between his legs and kiss him.

“I’m so excited to prove you right about us as parents,” Richie tells him, no more than a murmur against Eddie’s lips. Eddie smiles; Richie can feel it against his own mouth, so he kisses him again. “Put a baby in me, Eddie Kaspbrak—”

“For the love of _ God, _shut up,” Eddie repeats.

“You know the one tried and true way to get me to shut the fuck up?” Richie says. “Put—”

“Do _ not _say ‘put a baby in me,’” Eddie says, face blushing darker and darker. Richie ducks his head and kisses along Eddie’s throat.

“Put your dick in my mouth?” Richie tries. Eddie makes a considering noise. “Well, if you’re not interested—”

_ “No,” _Eddie says, too quickly. “No, no, I— I’m interested.”

“Yeah?” Richie kisses down to Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie shivers. Richie reaches past him and grabs his coffee mug, leaning back to take a sip and grin.

“Fuck you,” Eddie says weakly. Richie leans in to kiss him and, as soon as Eddie parts his lips, spits his coffee into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie shrieks, shoving Richie off so hard that Richie drops the mug. Luckily, it doesn’t smash, but it _ does _spill everywhere, so it stains Richie’s t-shirt when Eddie tackles him to the ground and shoves his face into the floor before kissing the back of his neck, shoving his knees apart, and rolling his hips down against Richie’s ass.

“Fuck,” Richie gasps. Eddie leans down over Richie, mouth dangerously close to his ear.

“You like that?” Eddie asks, and trails his hand down Richie’s damp t-shirt to dip his hand into Richie’s pajama pants, strong fingers wrapping around Richie’s cock. Richie shudders. “Richie.”

“Yes, I like that,” Richie answers. Eddie smiles against his neck.

“Good,” Eddie says, then pulls his hand off and gets up. Richie makes a wounded sound, looking back over his shoulder; Eddie stands over him, merciless. “Then you can go _ fuck yourself, _ you disgusting fuckwad. What is _ wrong with you—” _

“Oh, you’re in for it now,” Richie says, whirling to his feet and cupping Eddie’s face in his hands. He makes himself pause, makes himself savor the moment that Eddie’s looking up at him, furious and turned on and endearing and endeared. Instead of kissing him hard like he was going to, he dips his head and kisses Eddie tenderly, softly, rubbing his thumbs into the hinges of Eddie’s jaw as he does. Eddie melts against him, palms pressed flat against Richie’s chest. Richie tips his head on an angle, deepens the kiss, and Eddie lets him, licks into Richie’s mouth himself and sighs. Richie’s left hand traces down to Eddie’s hip, holds him close while his other hand wanders up to cup the back of Eddie’s head and kiss him as closely as he can, as hard and soft as he can do simultaneously.

When he pulls back, Eddie doesn’t open his eyes for a long moment. When he does, his pupils are huge, making his dark eyes look darker. He looks up at Richie and opens his mouth, then closes it.

“I love you,” Richie tells him. Eddie nods.

“I got that,” Eddie replies. Richie grins. “I love you, too, dipshit.”

“Such a man,” Richie says, faux-swooning. “He lovingly calls me _ dipshit, _ he absolutely _ refuses _ to impregnate his own husband, he tackled me to the _ ground—” _

“Oh, you can just go fuck yourself, you spit in my _ mouth—” _

“Edward, I hate to tell you, but I have licked inside your ass—”

“Oh, my God—”

“And you have—”

“I quit!” Eddie exclaims, throwing his hands up, but Richie just laughs, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s shoulders and pulling him in close, burying his face in Eddie’s hair.

“You can’t _ quit, _ you _ married me, _ you fucking idiot,” Richie gleefully reminds him. Eddie mutters something into his chest, but Richie doesn’t hear it in between being muffled by his shirt and then muffled by his mouth. Richie holds Eddie’s chin in his hand and kisses him softly before pulling back to grin again. _ “Now _can we have a baby?”

“I’ll kill you,” Eddie says, simply. He shrugs. “I will. You seem to think I won’t, but I will, in a _ heartbeat—” _

Richie laughs, pulling him in, kissing him again, again, _ again, _ because he _ can. _ He finally feels like he can be Carol Brady, or Marion Cunningham, or Morticia Addams. Actually, _ especially _Morticia Addams, because Eddie is kissing him hard and groaning under his hands and writhing closer to him, trying to get his hands under his clothes, and Richie grins against his lips.

“This is just like the movies,” Richie tells him.

“You’re so fucking corny,” Eddie says.

“Ah, true love,” Richie says, while Eddie shouts, “You’re such a fucking _ wuss!” _over him. Eddie finally lets himself open up and laugh as Richie yanks him in by the hips to kiss again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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